“Pass me over.” After Fred said hello, I said, “Hey, I hear you have bad news.”
“Not really bad, per se, just not good.”
“I guess this is the day for it. What do you have?”
“The davenport? It’s a modern-day repro.”
“Darn.”
“Yeah. It’s sold through the Winslow Reproduction Furniture Web site for six hundred ninety-five dollars.”
“So it’s not junk,” I commented, reacting to the price point. Winslow was known for selling midrange furniture.
“No, but it’s not an antique,” he said, bridling with contempt.
I discounted 25 percent of his negativity—Fred was an antiques snob. “What’s its condition?”
“A couple of nicks and a major scratch.”
“How would you price it for the tag sale?” I asked.
He paused. Fred was a superb appraiser, but he had almost no merchandising experience and even less innate sense. His instinct was to jack up the price on those objects he considered especially important and undercharge for those items he held in contempt or simply didn’t care for. I was trying to train him to be more objective and thus more commercially savvy.
“I don’t know. Fifty dollars, maybe.”
“Only minor damage, right?”
“Yeah. Except for that one scratch, which is pretty noticeable.”
“I’m thinking more than that—maybe two-thirds off the original price would be fair. Maybe two forty-nine, two twenty-four, something like that.”
“Really? That much? It’s not even a collectible.”
I considered how to explain not just about pricing this piece but the overarching concept. My motive was selfish—the more nuts-and-bolts responsibility my staff could handle, the more I could direct my energy to growing the business. Delegation, for me, was the hardest thing to be good at. Get good at it, my father had instructed me. Be generous with your knowledge, confirm your staff’s understanding, and continually remind yourself that not everything needs to be done perfectly.
“There are two factors to consider,” I explained, sounding more patient than I felt. “First, since we don’t carry many desks, we don’t have a track record on how to price it. And if we don’t know what the market will bear, it’s probably better to start higher and be able to reduce the price if it doesn’t sell quickly than leave money on the table by pricing it too low in the first place—and, worse, to never even know we’ve done so. Second, two-thirds off is a great deal. I mean, think about it—a sixty-seven percent discount for a nearly new desk is a heck of bargain in anybody’s book.”
“But earlier you told me not to price the art print repro too high. What’s the difference?”
“Good question, Fred. Basically, we have two kinds of customers, users and investors. By pricing art prints all about the same, the users, the people who buy art prints to frame and hang in their homes, know that when they’re in the market for that sort of item, they can come to us and find a wide variety of good pieces fairly priced. The investors know that occasionally they’ll find a gem, so they keep returning. The davenport doesn’t fit into either customer model. Since we don’t normally display much furniture at the tag sales, we don’t attract either users or investors. Think about it—we’re not a used furniture store, which would attract users, and we don’t stock enough furniture to attract investors. When we do have a piece for sale, almost by definition it’s unique; therefore, it can be priced on its own merits. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, it does, actually,” he replied, sounding surprised that he understood something about business.
“Good. As a general statement, among objects we carry on a regular basis, it’s better for us to price a great piece too low than a mediocre piece too high. Among objects we don’t usually have in stock, it’s better for us to price it too high than too low. It’s complex, I know.”
“Yeah,” he agreed.
From his tone of voice, I could tell he meant it in spades. To be fair, I agreed. I’d need to repeat the underlying theory of pricing strategy many times before it got assimilated, I knew, but reminded myself that it was just part of running a business.
As soon as I hung up, my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number.
“This is Josie.”
“Josie?”
It was Paige and she was crying.
“What is it, Paige? Are you all right?”
All I heard was snuffling. I felt the world slow down as I entered crisis mode, the place where I seem able to have a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree awareness and cope well. “It’s all right, Paige. Take your time. I’m here.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice muffled with tears.
“No problem. Can you answer a few questions?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice barely audible.
“Are you okay—physically, I mean?”
“Yes. It’s not that.” Her crying swelled into sobbing, then backed off to a whimper. “I’m sorry,” she said again.
“I can tell you’re really upset, Paige.”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me why?”
Officer Brownley had turned off the interstate, and was heading toward the Chaffee house. I ratcheted up the fan another notch. As the sun sank lower in the sky, the air became increasingly bitter.
“I didn’t know who else to call.”
“I’m glad you called me.”
More crying, then, “It’s Mr. and Mrs. Reilly,” she said, referring to her friend’s parents. “I overheard Brooke.”
I felt my lungs contract. I wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Whatever she was about to reveal was going to upset me. I could smell it. “What did you hear?” I asked calmly.
“They’re canceling a weekend trip. Because of me.” I heard mortification in her voice, then harrowing, racking weeping. Her voice, when it came again, was wispy and cracked. “They’re going to forfeit their deposit somewhere.”
It was futile to explain that the Reillys probably didn’t care about losing a deposit, that they were, no doubt, glad to be there for Paige. This wasn’t about money; this was about pride. Paige felt like a burden.
You’ll be fine, Paige, I thought of saying. Give it time. It’s okay. Go ahead and cry. Don’t mouth platitudes, I told myself, dismissing the words of reassurance that flooded my brain. Well-intentioned words that conveyed no truth and therefore offered no succor. If you want to help her, I told myself, well then, roll up your sleeves and do something. The answer came unheralded.
“How about if you come and stay with me?” I said.
There was sudden silence.
“I mean it, Paige. You’re more than welcome.”
More silence except for the sound of her breathing. Officer Brownley signaled the turn onto Hanover Street.
“I can come get you,” I said.
Snuffling, then some more heartfelt crying.
“What is it?” I asked.
“What will I tell Brooke and her folks? They’ve been so great to me.”
“Tell them the truth. I begged and begged and finally you agreed to stay with me for a couple of days. You’re taking turns and you’ll be back on Monday.”
A tearful gulp. “Thank you, Josie.”
“Pack up, kiddo. I’ll be there in an hour or so.”
Poor Paige, I thought. I ended the call, and softly pounded the dashboard in testimony to my frustration.
When we got to Rosalie’s house, I parked in back of Officer Brownley’s patrol car and turned off the engine, relieved to have a tangible task to distract me from anxious musings about Paige.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
S
hall we go around back?” I asked Officer Brownley. “Or through the house?”
“Around is probably quicker,” she replied.
I led the way, pushing through the heavy snow. Tall trees dotted the small yard, and forsythia bushes ranged along the wood-slat fence that encircled the property, wi
ld and unpruned. It must be spectacular in springtime, I thought, picturing the head-high bushes thick with delicate blossoms.
The only section of the perimeter without forsythia was a small hill in the far back corner. I glanced at Rosalie’s neighbors’ yards, visible through chinks in the fence. All the property within sight was flat. “That’s odd, isn’t it?” I asked, pointing toward the sharply rising embankment.
“Land sometimes does that,” Officer Brownley said, shrugging.
“So abruptly?” I asked.
“It happens.”
I bet it’s man-made, I thought. Probably for sledding. Another wave of sadness washed over me as I considered the charming hominess of the effort. I wondered if Rosalie had built it for Paige as a surprise or whether Paige had helped.
The loose key we’d found in the toiletry kit didn’t fit the back door, but the standard-sized key that had been on the ring when Mr. Bolton handed it over did. Officer Brownley and I looked at each other, and I shrugged.
“If you find a lock I don’t know about, give me a call,” I said.
“It’d be best if you let me make a copy of the keys.”
“You know I can’t do that without permission. Talk to Mr. Bolton.”
Officer Brownley wasn’t happy with my response, but nodded philosophically.
“I’ll send you a copy of the appraisal when it’s done,” I said, not to placate her but to bridge the awkward moment. “Mr. Bolton said I could.”
She smiled a little. “Thanks, Josie. You spot anything, you let me know, okay?”
I called Wes, told him I was running late but en route, and headed toward the shore. The sparkling sun shimmered low over the forest to the west, and the smooth surface of the ocean was flicked with gilt. Vermillion- and russet-colored clouds streaked the sky. “Red sky at night, sailors’ delight. Red sky at morning, sailors take warning,” I murmured, remembering the rhyme my father had taught me long ago. Tomorrow would dawn another clear, sunny day.
As I passed the Rocky Point police station, I saw Ty’s vehicle parked near the front door. For a fleeting moment I considered stopping to say hey, but didn’t. If he asked me why I was in Rocky Point, I’d either have to lie or admit I was meeting Wes. Ty wasn’t above feeding tips to the press when it had the potential to help his investigation, but it galled him that I might work with the media, too.
From my perspective, my approach was smart and self-protective: If I was going to be quoted, I wanted to know it. And if I was able to satisfy my curiosity along the way, I saw no harm in it. From Ty’s standpoint, it was foolhardy. What I perceived as prudent, he perceived as irresponsible, and maybe even dangerous.
Wes was waiting for me at the top of the dune, standing with his back to me in snow that reached almost to the top of his knee-high gaiters. He was bundled into a navy blue pea coat that pulled tautly across his shoulders, and I wondered if he’d gained weight since he’d bought the coat or was wearing an extra sweater to combat the frigid weather.
“Wes!” He didn’t respond, and I figured that the waves rolling into shore masked my arrival. “Wes!” I shouted. No reaction.
I gave my scarf an extra turn around my neck, flipped up the hood of my parka, and scampered up the snow-covered sand to join him. “Hey, Wes,” I said breathlessly. A blast of wind blew my hood back. “Tell me why I’m here. It’s freezing!”
He turned to face me, and I could see that his cheeks were chapped and red from the dry cold and stinging salt air. “I thought you wanted to meet somewhere private.”
“Yeah, but I also wanted to live through the experience.”
“Ha, ha,” he said.
“Let’s go sit in my car, okay?”
He lumbered after me as I pigeon-stepped through the snow down the slope. Once we were in the car, with the seats pushed back as far as they would go and the heat pumping, I twisted around to face him. “So?” I asked.
“I got news. And then a question.”
“Okay,” I replied warily.
“Looks like Rosalie was murdered for sure.” He lowered his voice. “Before she drowned, she was hit on the head.”
“It’s so awful,” I whispered.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “So, here’s the thing. She died between nine and ten o’clock at night—the same day you guys had lunch.”
I shook my head and squinted through a break in the dunes toward the ocean. The water looked inky dark in the gathering dusk, and endless. “How can they be so sure about the time?” I asked. “It was cold that night. Wouldn’t that affect their calculations?”
“Yeah, but they can figure it out based on stuff like how digested the food in her stomach was, the temperatures of the water and air, and the tidal patterns. Stuff like that.”
“Tidal patterns!” I said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Yeah. They calculate she entered the water at or near the Rocky Point jetty. They think she was hit with something wooden, then fell or was thrown into the ocean and got pretty banged up hitting rocks on the way down. They’re pretty sure that she was unconscious when she hit the water.”
His description was painfully vivid. “And she washed ashore with the incoming tide,” I whispered, sickened at the picture Wes had painted. I closed my eyes, trying to block the image of Rosalie, her soft blond hair splaying out, as she tumbled from the Rocky Point jetty into the glacial Atlantic Ocean, then arced her way to the seaweed-strewn beach.
I opened my eyes. “How do they know she was struck first? Couldn’t her injuries have resulted from hitting the rocks?”
“There were wood splinters in her scalp,” he said matter-offactly. “That’s why I asked you about wood on the phone.”
The specificity of the image was chilling, and I closed my eyes again. Splinters, I thought, shivering, not from the cold this time. I opened my eyes. “Wouldn’t splinters wash away in the current?”
“Not when they’re embedded,” he said.
“I guess,” I acknowledged, grimacing at the thought, picturing the Rocky Point jetty littered with nature’s detritus. Branches from nearby trees blew onto the beach during storms and were bleached by the sun and tossed by the tide for months or years, ending up as white-gray, satiny smooth driftwood. “But still—she could have fallen on a piece of wood, right? And ended up with splinters? There’s lots of driftwood at the Point.”
“They said there’s a protective coating—varnish—on the splinters, which means it’s extremely unlikely they came from driftwood.”
“Varnish!” I exclaimed, seeing his logic.
“Yeah. Let me tell you what I know,” Wes said. He scanned his paper and found the note he was looking for. “It was an alkyd varnish with some polyurethane added to it.”
“That’s common,” I said.
“How do you know?”
“I evaluate wood and wood treatments all the time. I know stuff like that. And they don’t know what kind of wood it is?”
“No. How can they tell?”
“Depending on the size of the splinter, they may be able to tell by microscopic examination. I mean, oak looks way different from cherry, for example. If they can find the object they think was used to hit Rosalie, like a baseball bat or something, they could even do a DNA analysis and match the splinters to the specific weapon.”
“DNA in wood?” he asked, sounding astonished. “You’re kidding!”
“It’s called botanical DNA. The test was developed to catch tree poachers. It’s expensive, but it’s possible.” I glanced at the dashboard clock. It was after five-thirty. I needed to leave soon to collect Paige. “What else did they find?”
“Besides the algae and other ocean stuff, nothing. There were no signs of struggle. No bruises on the backs of her arms as if she’d tried to ward off a blow—nothing like that.”
I closed my eyes again as Wes spoke, shaken by the haunting and fearsome image he conveyed. What would drive someone to take a chunk of wood and strike Rosalie? Taking a deep breath, I op
ened my eyes again and looked north. It had grown too dark to see anything, but I knew the Point was there, a mile or so up the beach. Composed of boulders lodged together, the Rocky Point jetty stretched due east from the high tide line a hundred feet or so out into the ocean and rose about ten feet above the surf at low tide, a monolith designed to protect, not kill. The rocks were irregularly shaped and algae-slick, difficult to navigate during the day, and treacherous after dark.
“Why?” I asked Wes.
“Why what?” he asked.
“Why was she there? What possible reason could there be for Rosalie to be on the jetty at nine o’clock on a January night? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t know. Any ideas?” he countered.
The car was becoming overly warm and I lowered the settings, loosened my scarf, and unzipped my jacket. In the weak glow from the small map light, I could see his eyes as they bored into mine. I was witnessing a diligent reporter working a source—me. “I have no idea.”
Wes shifted position to face me full on. “You know how I said I wanted to ask you something?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Here’s the question—if you were me, what would you do next?” he asked.
I shrugged. “When in doubt, start with motive.”
“Love, hate, fear, money, right?”
“Plus jealousy,” I said, thinking of Edie. And maybe Paul Greeley, I thought, wondering once again how he took the breakup of their romance. Even Cooper the Condescending was a possibility. From what I could see, he felt as passionate about his work as Edie did about her marriage. If either of them had been thwarted, well, who knows what might have occurred. And don’t forget Rosalie’s secret admirer, I reminded myself. Who is now inexplicably my secret admirer, I thought with a shudder. I looked into both side mirrors and the rearview mirror seeking out I knew not what. The road in back of me was empty. The world was still.
“Who’s jealous?” Wes asked, zeroing in on my comment.
His question made me realize that Wes didn’t know about Rosalie’s affair with Gerry or, apparently, her brief romance with Paul. Or of the professional jealousy I sensed emanating from Cooper.
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